


Short Stories Collection

by solitariusvirtus



Category: Original Work
Genre: Other, Short Stories
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-11-16 00:14:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11242254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/solitariusvirtus





	Short Stories Collection

I live on my own. This has been the case for the past two years, ever since I moved into my little flat. By little I mean bigger than I need, but small enough that I can never redecorate with anything I like. However, as living quarters go, it’s not shabby. Not that I took that into consideration. Rent is fairly cheap, which is all that mattered to me.

Now don’t go thinking I ended up in some rough neighbourhood. It’s a nice place actually. Small park close by. A lot of families with small children. All that jazz. All in all, it’s a place most people would be content to live in. Of course, that fails to explain why the rent is cheap. Moreover, it seems to contradict the very possibility. But here it is, the irrefutable truth.

Had it been any higher, I would have needed someone to share with, since rent money doesn’t grow on trees. I don’t actually mind the being alone part. There is a fine line, after all, between that sort of solitude which soothes and the frightening isolation movies nowadays have so diligently perfected. Since I fall in that category of weirdos who actually doesn’t need a whole lot of human interaction (a few hours are usually enough to tie me over until the next day). Or, should I say, I was such a weirdo.

Then, as things are wont to do, the situation changed. Inevitably, when something is going good for you, life will kick you in the metaphorical balls; a friendly reminder that no, the universe doesn’t actually care for you because there is no God and the entire idea of a paternal figure gazing down upon you from its high perch in the skies was always a lie (and I’m not objectively wrong about that).

Which brings me to my current situation. I live alone, as I said, and I quite enjoyed my solitude, not foreseeing any need for change. Stupid of me, especially when weirdness permeated my reality as a result. By weirdness I do mean that archaic strangeness which is rife in those stories so few of us understand beneath the superficial level. But you didn’t come here for a lesson in literature. I should get on with my story. The long and short of it is that I started noticing changes.

Small ones in the beginning; the remote moving from the table to the couch, a plate disappearing and reappearing in the dryer, one of my shoes from when I was a child (sentimental value) climbing down from its shelf and so on so forth. That sort of thing. The sort of thing a horror movie protagonist will ascribe to their own failing memory or coincidence. Thankfully, I am not a horror movie protagonist. When I finally caught on to what was happening, and it did take me a few days, I decided one night away was the best solution. So I did what any sane person would do. I set up a camera to record throughout the night and hightailed it out of there.

Unsurprisingly, that night yielded nothing of use. And while spending one night away in a hotel room doesn’t put a huge dent into my store of monetary resources, it’s still money blown away. So my only choice was to come back home. My next move? I checked with the owner to see whether I could abandon my comfortable shelter and start hunting for a new abode. The answer, I am certain you can divine, I could leave, as long as I paid the ransom , namely a compensation for all the loss my defection would engender. I was not willing to part with my hard-earned money.

Just like that, I was left to formulate a new plan. I could go back to my parents’, but they live a long distance away and I had a job to do. That flew out the window. A few more days in the place would not kill me, I reasoned throughout my workday, and so when I came home to find the remote in the kitchen, my only response was a sigh. The distance was much further than previous instances. I picked it up and carried it back to its customary place, turning on the telly as I did so.

The news was on. Someone had died in a car accident, another war was poised to start and anchor droned on with all the empathy of toaster. My shoe was in its place though; small mercies. And the rest of my afternoon did not boast anything remotely notable. I did debate using the camera but, given how any piece of technology can be infiltrated and information stolen at the drop of a hat, in the end, decided against it. If objects moved at night, I would not see it. Not seeing it would help my brain wrap itself around the notion that it was not real.          

And so, when came the time to lie down and rest my weary brain, I huddled beneath the blanket, pulling it fast over my head, an added barrier to block any chance of catching sight of, presumably, flying objects. I will confess here and now I was shaking under my covers, anticipation snaking its way up my spine, just as fear glided along. How to explain two contrary impulses tugged upon a finite amount of choice? Light a candle at both ends and wait for the flames to meet in the middle. I was left paralysed.

Tension rose high. I had expected as much, in consequence my body failed to move even when I picked up creaking and squeaking coming from somewhere in the hallway. I breathed in through my nose, the hot air choking me into a wheeze. The noises paused. It was almost as though whatever was out there in the hall listened as closely to me as I was closely to them. God might not exist, but in that moment, I wished He did. Because fear itself is a dragon greater than any other. As such no man can stand up to it; but God in no man. And God does not exist.

I breathed out, sweat washing down the nape of my neck as the need for air rose to critical heights. I could continue no longer under the blanket. And yet my hand, stayed by the sharp end of a foul thought lurking in the recess of my mind, refused to move. The absolute nature of reality would not allow it. I had to breathe. I needed air. Instinct kicked in.

The veil fell away and a rush of cool air stroked my cheeks and nose as I greedily gulped in the sustenance to my lungs. The burn of such a breath never really goes away; in that moment of haunting panic you are on the brink. Of what? Unreality.

Returning to my take, I frantically searched my room for a shadow, a flicker, a piece of proof to feed my distrust of this low-rent, too-good-to-be-true apartment. There was nothing. From that first frightening night, there was precisely nothing to corroborate my fears with a predatory variant of reality. No demonic red-glowing eyes, no wizened face emerging from the darkness; my arrogance was and remains self-evidently counterproductive. To think that I could pin whatever has been going on down to preternatural forces, forces beyond my limits of understanding, forces that must, by definition, be indifferent to my very existence, demonstrated a level of naiveté I wish were not as pronounced.

There is no answer. As in all things which haunt us to realise the existence of evil, for lack of a better word, even though evil is precisely the fitting term, yet tragedy serves no better a chance, is to take an irreversible step. Consciousness is what that is.     

I live alone, partly by choice and partly by happenstance. And up until very recently I was certain change was nowhere near my horizon. I suppose pride doth come before the fall and I should have asked more questions about the flat. Perhaps contacting the previous tenants, asking whether their move was due to something other than supernatural forces with a tendency to organise pranked-episodes. If someone called me with such a question, I’d recommend the nearest psychiatric ward because clearly there are some issues there I am in no capacity to help with. To be fair, I don’t imagine the previous tenants would have a very different view of me were I to call with such a question. Also, interrogating the owner about the low price seems superfluous at this point. I have to find a new place, somewhere where this almost pathological fear of vulnerability doesn’t follow.

The rent is still cheap, the park remains nearby, the families with their small children mill about, but the jazzy tune has started to die out and the nights grow colder. It chips my non-existent courage, flinging me deeper into chaos.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate first person narrations...awful. I suppose it's pretty obvious. On well.


End file.
